the men in the trees at the house behind ours are busying themselves with their work. high in the tops, bound by rope, wielding chainsaws—they don’t know what it’s like to be grounded. stuck down here under a blanket of yellow. with no cleansing rains in sight. nothing to wash this thing away as we wither away in our homes with our families—like some kind of sick joke that was meant as a gift. no. they measure their steps carefully. with hardhat strapped tight. shoulder deep in thick april dust.